


Your Sun and Your Summers

by golden_d



Series: Wait for Spring [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_d/pseuds/golden_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best thing about baseball is that there's always next year. There's always hope. (A "Wait for Spring" perspective flip.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sun and Your Summers

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to blue_fjords for taking the time out of her busy schedule to be an amazing beta. <3 Credit for the "Hamlet" line goes entirely to my friend Liz.
> 
> The title is from (but not especially related to) Arthur O'Shaugnessy's ["Ode"](http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Arthur_O'Shaughnessy#Ode).

Arthur Wolf is eighteen years old, and he’s just been drafted as a shortstop by the Baltimore Orioles. He’s signed a contract for - well, for pretty shit money compared to what they make in the majors, but it’s a standard minor league contract and it’s still a helluva lot more than he’d make working retail.

“But what about college?” his mother had asked him, and he did want to go, he’d even sent in his acceptance to UCLA (no getting that deposit fee back, that’s for sure), but—

“I can learn anywhere,” he’d said. “I can always go back to school. But Mom, this might be my only chance at baseball.”

“Your dad would be proud of you,” she’d said to him, managing a smile, and he wishes his dad was alive to see him sign that contract.

\--

His roommate is a pitcher named Eames, a few years older than Arthur, and British. That’s surprising - most of the players are American, and there’s some Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, but that’s _normal_ , they actually play baseball in those countries.

“My mum was American,” Eames says, when Arthur finally works up the nerve to ask him about it, how some British guy started playing an American ballgame.

“Yeah?” Arthur’s never been great at smalltalk. Luckily, Eames doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah. Anyway, she taught me how to play catch. And when we moved to Ohio for a few years—”

“ _Ohio?_ ”

“—on business, shut up, I'm talking. I played Little League while we were here, moved back to England, came back to the States for university, made it onto the team as a walk-on, and the rest is history." 

He tells the story like he's told it a hundred times before, which, Arthur thinks, he probably has. There aren’t too many British guys playing baseball. “I started playing in first grade,” Arthur offers in return. “My dad was the team coach.”

Everyone’s got an origin story. It just happens that Arthur’s is pretty boring.

\--

Arthur could listen to Eames talk for days, though; he didn’t know he had a thing for British accents, but evidently he does. (He’s known he had a thing for guys since freshman year of high school, but that’s not exactly information he shares freely. His dad knew, and his mom knows, and his best friends - that’s about it.) It makes it a little awkward, sometimes, because occasionally Arthur will be caught up in the sound of Eames’ voice and will miss the words that he actually says.

He dreams about Eames, once or twice, but he does his best to forget about those as soon as possible, because it’s enough to deal with his teenage libido (especially living in middle-of-nowhere Maryland, where he doesn’t know anybody except for his teammates) without having to deal with a crush on his roommate.

That’s all it is, though, a crush. He’ll get over it; if it wasn’t Eames, it would be another of his teammates. Shit like that happens when you shower together.

\--

The thing is, Arthur just happens to be passing by. Right place, right time, who knew that this would alter his career path forever?

The thing is, Eames can’t throw a slider to save his life, so the pitching coach is working with him to try and shape it up. All their catchers, though, they’ve conveniently found other things to do (and this is intentional, Arthur knows; as soon as someone overheard the coach talking to Eames about practicing his slider, all three catchers ran for the hills). 

But Arthur is jogging by, and Pete Browning happens to see him, and somehow Arthur winds up masquerading as a catcher for their practice session. “If you bean me, you’re buying dinner,” Arthur warns with a grin.

“I’m so bloody wild I’ll be buying you a month of dinners,” Eames complains miserably. 

Eames throws the first slider in the dirt at Arthur’s feet, but he catches it. The second one, Eames is supposed to throw low and inside, and it stays low but is way the hell away, and - Arthur catches it, lunging to the right. The third one, low; the fourth one, high, and Arthur has to leap up from his knees, but he catches it.

He catches all of them.

Hitting has never been Arthur’s strength, but he’s got a good glove and he knows it; he’s built for speed rather than power, and that’s fine, that’s what most shortstops are supposed to do anyway. So he’s maybe a little surprised at his catching ability (but not too surprised), but he doesn’t lose his balance until their manager wanders over and says to him, “Kid, you ever consider bein’ a catcher?”

\--

He never has, of course. Catchers are broad and sturdy and get nicknamed “Pudge.” Arthur is, put plainly, far too skinny to ever be a catcher. But if there’s anything Arthur really likes, it’s defying people’s expectations.

He’s naturally talented at defense, and that helps. He works with the coaches to learn the mechanics of being a catcher (there’s more to it than just catching the ball, who knew?), to learn how to read his pitchers and judge the opposing hitters. It is, to his surprise, even more fun than playing shortstop.

“I’m saying this as your catcher, as your teammate, and as your friend,” he tells Eames one evening, after they’ve gotten home from a game. “You need to give up on the slider.”

Eames gives him a wounded look, and Arthur resists the urge to tell him exactly _how_ wounded he’ll be if he keeps throwing it at people’s heads. “I don’t like quitting,” Eames says petulantly.

“You’re not quitting,” Arthur says. “You’re strategically retreating. It’s for the good of the army.” He grins. “Besides, I bet you’ll like the sinker a helluva lot better.”

He should’ve bet actual money, Arthur thinks later. He’d have won big time.

\--

The minor league season is a short one, and so Arthur finds himself back in California by Columbus Day. He gets a part-time job at a baseball academy, helping little kids with their swing, and spends the rest of the time training and keeping in shape. The training required to be a catcher is different than what he’s used to as a shortstop - for one thing, his knees need a lot more strengthening up.

Arthur spends a lot of time with his friend Ariadne when she’s back in town over her winter break. He takes her out to dinner for her eighteenth birthday (they were the same year in high school, but she’d skipped a grade before that), and it’s the perfect opening to talk about Eames. He and Ariadne have always been able to talk about boys, before - she was one of the first people he came out to - but this time he keeps quiet. It may just be a silly crush, but Eames is special. Arthur doesn’t want to share him - not yet. Instead, Ariadne tells him all about New York City and her classes at Cooper Union and how much she hates her roommate. Afterward, they were going to get coffee and sit on the bleachers in the old baseball field, but when they arrive, Arthur takes one look at the sign - _David Wolf Memorial Field_ \- and turns the car abruptly around. “I forgot that they renamed it,” he says, feeling sick. “Is there a plaque on the ground to commemorate where he fell, too?”

“Arthur,” Ariadne says sadly, and lays a hand on his arm. She has him drive back to her house, where she spikes their coffee with her mom’s brandy. They sit together on her bed and drink silently, watching bad movies on the new TV she got as a birthday present. They fall asleep hours later, curled next to each other like children, and in the morning she wakes him up by bringing him a mug full of coffee and plate piled high with Eggo waffles drenched in syrup. “Hey,” he says sleepily. “Ari—”

“Shh,” she tells him, kissing his forehead and stealing a waffle for herself. “You’re welcome.”

\--

The next year, he and Eames get moved up to Double-A at the same time, and Arthur’s in the books now as a catcher, playing backup to a guy named Nash. Nash thinks that Arthur could learn a lot from him, and this is probably true, but not in the way that Nash thinks. Mostly Arthur watches him to see what not to do.

It’s not that Nash is a bad catcher - he’s just mediocre. He can’t catch Eames, that’s for sure; he keeps missing the balls that Eames throws wild into the dirt. (So maybe Eames has some things to learn, too. So what? If they knew everything, they wouldn’t still be in the Minors.)

Arthur catches for all their pitchers, but he likes catching for Eames the best. 

\--

“My roommate got traded,” Arthur says, on the phone to Ariadne. Eames is gone to the Chicago White Sox, though for now he’s on the minor league affiliate in Alabama. “I’m gonna miss him. My new roommate’s an asshole.” 

\--

When the season ends, Arthur goes to New York City to spend a few days with Ariadne before flying back to California. It’s good to see her - she speaks about architecture the way he speaks about baseball, overflowing with zest and gusto. Even if he didn’t already love her like a sister, he appreciates passion.

They’re watching a movie in her apartment the night before he leaves, squeezed into the one seat on her couch that doesn’t have springs poking out, when she leans her head against his shoulder. “So, your roommate,” she says. “Your old one, I mean. You like him, don’t you?”

He freezes for a moment, then relaxes into her. “Yeah,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s straight.”

Ariadne laughs, looking up at him with a grin. “Yeah, well, whatever _that’s_ worth. You’re straight too, if anyone asks, right?”

He stares at the rug. “Yeah,” he says. He’s not ashamed of being gay, he never has been, but everyone knows that fags don’t play sports. Either they don’t choose to play, or they get bullied out because of their sexuality.

Arthur doesn’t like living a lie. But he’s nineteen, and like hell is he gonna give up a chance at the career of his dreams.

\--

He gets called up to Triple-A the next season, and he sees Eames now and then when they play against each other (and with each other, during the All-Star Game). Once they manage to meet for breakfast the day after a game, but neither one of them are morning people - they do a lot of eating, but not much talking. It’s fondly reminiscent of their time as roommates.

Now that he only occasionally sees Eames, it’s easier to dismiss his crush as being over and done with. Seeing Eames doesn’t bring back a rush of _feelings_ or anything; he almost never dreams or fantasizes about him anymore. In-between the end of the regular season and the start of the Arizona Fall League, he visits Ariadne in New York and even goes on a date with one of her friends.

The guy’s name is Nathan. “Where do you go to school?” Nathan asks him. Since Arthur can’t imagine that Ariadne hadn’t mentioned one of the more pertinent facts about him (i.e., his _career_ ), Arthur assumes Nathan might not be the best listener.

“I don’t,” Arthur says.

“Oh,” says Nathan, covering his surprise with a cough. “So, where do you work?”

“I play baseball,” he says.

Nathan looks aghast. “For a _living_?” he asks, and, yeah, Arthur can already tell that this date isn’t going to end well.

\--

“You did tell him I’m a baseball player, right?” Arthur asks Ariadne later that night, after ending the date before dessert and without any pretense at a goodnight kiss.

“No, because I’m stupid and inconsiderate,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Of course I did. I guess he thought I meant for your college team. I’m sorry. You know I’d never have set you up with him if I’d known he was going to be an elitist asshole.”

“It’s okay,” Arthur says with a sigh. “If my agent has his way, I’ll make more in twenty years than Nathan will in his whole life.” Assuming he actually makes it to the majors, and actually plays that long. 

Ariadne throws a pillow at him. “Don’t brag, it isn’t nice,” she complains. “You really think you’ll still be playing when you’re forty?”

He shrugs. “If I’m good enough, if I can stay healthy.”

“You’re good enough,” Ariadne declares. “Just make sure you take care of your knees.”

“Keep my kneepads on if I’m giving any blowjobs?” he asks dryly.

“Pillows might be more practical,” she grins. 

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever have an actual boyfriend,” Arthur says. The guys he dated in high school don’t count. “Until then, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

\--

Arthur goes to Spring Training in February already knowing that he’s probably going to make the team. He’s not being arrogant - there’s an opening on the team for a backup catcher, and he’s the best catcher in their farm system. They could always trade for someone, but why would they, when they can get Arthur for much cheaper?

He’s right, of course; he makes the team. His debut comes about a week into the season, and he’s fucking terrified. He’s only been catching for three years; they’re clearly going to realize they’ve made a mistake any minute now. Before the game, he’s shaking at his locker, trying to look like he’s not about to throw up, when Cal Ripken, Jr. comes up and claps him on the shoulder. “Kid,” Ripken says. “You think I’d go out there and play over two thousand straight games if it wasn’t worth it? Just wait till you get on the field. You’ll be okay.”

And, after that, Arthur is.

\--

It’s a couple of weeks later when the White Sox come into town to play the Orioles; he and Eames go out for burgers and beer after the last game. Arthur can’t believe how good it is to see him, and there’s a pang in his chest that he forces all the way down. “Sorry I didn’t get to see you play,” Arthur says. “Although if you’d pitched, we probably would’ve lost, so—”

“Yeah, well, still,” says Eames with a laugh. “Good game today.”

Arthur shrugs. “Would’ve been better if Key hadn’t kept shaking me off.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know you yet. _I’d_ never shake you off.”

Arthur flushes and looks away, trying to keep himself from smiling. He knows Eames only means it as a friendly compliment, a confidence-booster, but no matter what Eames actually says, what Arthur hears is _I trust you_. He just wishes he could trust Eames in return, trust him enough to tell him—

Not that it matters. He can’t tell anyone, trust or not. It isn’t safe.

\--

The next time he sees Eames, they’re playing the White Sox in Chicago. It’s cold down on the field; all the players are wearing long sleeves under their uniforms, and everyone in the dugout’s got their jackets on. Someone warned Arthur to wear two pairs of socks, and he’s glad he listened. He can’t imagine what this place is like when it’s actually winter, and not just mid-spring.

Eames was one of those jacket-wearers, and he’s bitter about the chill and what it does to his muscles. “You don’t like the cold much,” Arthur remarks later, after the game.

Eames raises an eyebrow as if to say, _Oh, and you do?_ “I _hate_ the cold,” he affirms, then shoots a panicked look around the bar before adding, “I like Chicago! But the winds, the bloody winds are murder.”

“Almost makes you wish for a dome, doesn’t it?” Arthur asks.

Eames blanches. “I hope you’re joking. I’d rather play in a blizzard than have to deal with those conditions and that _Astroturf_.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Arthur says. Astroturf, man. Might as well play ball on concrete.

\--

After that, he doesn’t see Eames until August, when the White Sox beat them three straight games. (He’d like to say that kind of thing almost never happens to the Orioles. He’d be lying.) Eames wins the third game, and afterward Arthur asks Eames to come over to his apartment for drinks. “There’s some girls who’ve started a fanclub,” he says awkwardly. “Makes it hard to have a beer in peace.” But Eames doesn’t treat it like anything strange, just shrugs and agrees, because a beer’s a beer, right? Doesn’t matter where you drink it.

They lounge around Arthur’s dining room table, and Eames congratulates him on getting a couple of hits off Eames that night.

“Oh, that,” says Arthur, because he can’t really take credit for it. “It’s your curveball. You do this thing with your elbow when you throw it—” He makes a jerky motion with his right arm, imitating. “Something like that.”

The look of dismay that Eames gives him almost breaks his heart. “So I’m tipping my pitches.”

“Only the one,” Arthur says quickly. “Just the curveball.” _Shit_ , he shouldn’t have said anything; that’s the pitching coach’s job, it’s not like they wouldn’t have figured it out soon enough.

“ _Only one_ is still too bloody many, Christ.” Eames looks sick. “And I suppose you told the rest of your team, then?”

“What? No!” says Arthur, horrified, and reaches impulsively to put a steadying hand on Eames’ arm. “Eames, you know I wouldn’t do that to you. You don’t pull that shit on a friend. I might - yeah, I used it to my advantage on my at-bats, but that’s me. I notice these things, especially when it’s you. And now I’m telling you so that you can fix it.”

Eames glances at Arthur’s hand, still on his arm, and shit, _shit_ , what is he doing? What is he saying? “You, uh, want another beer?” he asks him, standing abruptly. Anything to get out of the room for a minute. “Let me get you another beer.”

“No,” says Eames. “No, I’m fine. Thanks - for telling me. I shouldn’t have said that, I know you wouldn’t tell the team.” He looks at Arthur, smiles at him, and Arthur feels his heart start beating a little faster. “Sit back down, asshole. I won’t bite.”

\--

After that, Arthur has to admit to himself that this crush isn’t going anywhere. “I thought I was over it,” he says to Ariadne. They’re eating ice cream on the beach, and she’s stuffed her hair up into one of Arthur’s old baseball caps to keep it from blowing in her face. “I mean, who has crushes that last for _four years_?”

“More people than you think, probably,” she says. “Look, it’s going to be okay. You only have to see him - what, four or five times a year? Most of that is from across the field. And when it is actually just you and him, that’s only for a few hours. You’re already pretending all the time, so when you’re with Eames, you just need to pretend differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“You pretend that you’re interested in women, right? So instead of doing that, pretend that you’re _not_ interested in Eames.”

“You think that’ll work,” Arthur says skeptically.

“Hell if I know,” she shrugs, licking her chocolate ice cream. “But it can’t hurt to try.”

\--

It doesn’t _not_ work, anyway; Arthur’s not sure if the effect is any different than pretending to like women. These days, it seems like Eames is going out with someone new each month, so he’s surely too busy to notice if Arthur’s a little too attentive. 

There’s two years of that, of Eames’ serial dating and Arthur pretending that he doesn’t care. Then, when Arthur gets traded to the Los Angeles Dodgers, he honestly breathes a sigh of relief. Different leagues, different coasts. He buys the kind of house that he always used to dream of owning (but makes Ariadne come with him so she can steer him away from places that aren’t architecturally sound). He does his best to embrace the LA lifestyle (including a few clandestine trips to gay bars and resultant, if regrettable, one-night stands) and make friends of his new teammates. It isn’t that he won’t miss seeing Eames on a regular basis, but it has to be better this way. He’s not sure how much more he could have taken of getting passed over for Eames’ latest girlfriend.

Except then Eames calls his hotel room, when Arthur’s in Chicago to play a series against the Cubs. “Arthur?” he says. “Hi, Arthur, it’s Eames - saw you were in town and—”

“Oh, shit,” says Arthur, his mouth working faster than his brain. “I didn’t even think to check the schedule to see if you were in town. Can I - I mean, you wanna get a drink?”

“Yeah - yeah, come on over, you know where I live. I’ll put on the kettle.”

Arthur laughs. He can’t get over to Eames’ fast enough.

\--

“So I’m going to be in Chicago for a conference in a couple of weeks,” Ariadne says to him over the phone. “I thought I might fly to LA to see you, after. Will you be around?”

“Maybe,” he says, because they play so many games that he doesn’t honestly know where he’ll be in two weeks. “Give me the exact dates and I’ll check the schedule.” It turns out that yes, he will be, and as they’re about to end the call, he’s struck with an idea. “Wait, Ariadne,” says Arthur. “How’d you like to go on a date with Eames?”

“That sounds like a really bad idea,” she says skeptically. “I’m in.”

\--

The next day, he calls Eames. “Hey, so I was thinking,” he says. “I’ve got a friend, Ariadne, she’ll be in Chicago in a couple of weeks for an architecture conference.”

“An _architecture_ conference?”

“She’s an architect,” he explains. Eames is so easily distracted. “I thought you guys might really get along, if you can fit it into your schedule. Let me give you her number.”

“Why don’t you give her mine,” Eames says. “You know me, if I write it down, I’ll lose it.”

It’s true that Eames is not always the neatest of people; Arthur knows this in a way that only a roommate can. “Sure,” he says. “I will. I think you’ll really like her.”

Arthur isn’t really trying to set them up - if they get along, that’s great; he’d be happy for both of them, and since he could never find it in himself to hate Ariadne, he might even get over his crush. 

What? Hope springs eternal. 

\--

“How’d the date go?” he asks Ariadne when she’s at his house, relaxing after her flight.

“I had a good time,” she says. “I don’t think he’s really my type, though. But we’ll probably stay in touch. He’s a really nice guy,” she adds, smiling. “I can see why you like him.”

Arthur shrugs; he’s trying to get over it. Ariadne watches him for a moment, then says, “I think you should tell him, Arthur. I think he’d react a lot better than you think he would.”

“Seriously?” he says, looking at her sharply. “You’ve met him _once_. I like to think I know him a little better than you do.”

Ariadne glares at him. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need _help_ ,” he spits. “Especially not from—”

“—your _best friend_?” She gives him a look of disgust. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with _me_? You’re the one walking around making snap judgments about people!”

“I spent four hours with Eames, I think I got to know him at least a little!” Arthur just grunts at that and Ariadne stares. “Oh my god,” she says. “You’re _jealous_ , aren’t you? That’s what this is about.”

“Jealous of _you_?” he says incredulously. “Yeah, you’re really a threat to my romantic life. I hear all the guys are into supercilious bitches these days.”

“Wow,” Ariadne says. “Seriously? Go fuck yourself.”

She stays at his house for the next three days and doesn’t speak a word to him until she’s about to leave. “Call me once you get your head out of your ass,” she says, and he might slam the door behind her a little harder than necessary.

\--

He doesn’t call her, because he has his pride, and if he says that Eames is straight, well, he would know, wouldn’t he? He does call Eames, though. Talking to Eames makes him feel better, even if it shouldn’t. 

“She’s a wonder,” Eames says, when he asks how the date had gone. “Whoever she ends up with will be a lucky man.”

“But it won’t be you, huh?”

“Not my type, I’m afraid.”

“Is anyone ever?” Arthur asks, more jealously than he’d meant to. 

“Mm, not so far,” says Eames, but Arthur’s not really listening. If no women have been his type, then maybe... “Arthur? Still there?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, forcing his attention back to the conversation and away from stupid daydreams. “I - yeah, sorry, distracted by something on TV,” he lies. “ESPN is showing highlights from your game this afternoon. That was a great play you made covering first.” That part’s not a lie - it was a great play; he’d watched the game. It just isn’t on ESPN at the moment. 

“Ta,” says Eames, and Arthur can hear the smile in the word, wishes he were there to see it. “I knew all those drills would pay off eventually.”

\--

The thing is, Ariadne’s not going to call _him_. She’s as proud as he is and probably twice as stubborn; if he ever wants to talk to her again, he needs to be the one to initiate it. So he does - it just takes him until after the season is over, when he doesn’t have travel and games and teammates to distract him from the fact that he misses her.

“Hi,” he says, when she picks up the phone. “It’s me. I was thinking about maybe spending Thanksgiving on the East Coast. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining me?”

“Is this your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah. I’m not very good at it.”

“Truer words,” says Ariadne with a laugh. “I’ll buy a roasting pan.”

(It’s the first Thanksgiving he’s ever spent apart from his family; the turkey’s dry and the cranberry sauce burns, and somehow they get mashed potatoes on her ceiling. They end up ordering pizza and drinking way too much wine, but Arthur wouldn’t change a thing.)

\--

Arthur turns on ESPN one morning in the off-season to find out that Eames has signed with San Francisco. The Giants and Dodgers are division rivals - they’ll be seeing a lot of each other. He can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

Eames calls him a few weeks before spring training. “Arthur,” he says. “Arthur, I need you to help me. It’s very important.”

If Arthur hadn’t been paying attention before, he is now. “What - Eames, of course I’ll help you, what’s the matter?” He’s being arrested, Arthur thinks. He needs to pay off a gambling debt. He’s in the hospital. Arthur’s already preparing to fly to San Francisco to bail him out.

“Arthur, they’ll expect me to hit. I haven’t swung a bat since university. I’m going to make a fool out of myself unless you help me. Arthur, are you _laughing?_ ”

“Yes,” Arthur gasps. “Oh my god, I thought there was actually something wrong with you. There is _definitely_ something wrong with you, actually, I can’t believe you scared me like that.”

He ends up inviting Eames to his house for a week to help him brush up on his hitting. He only hopes that they’ll still be friends at the end of it.

When he throws batting practice for Eames, he makes sure they’re far enough away from the house to avoid any broken windows (although that presupposes that Eames will actually make contact with the ball, which has yet to be the case). They’ve always been able to talk to one another, and their conversation runs the gamut from baseball to movies to philosophy. Still, it’s a surprise when Eames asks him, “D’you remember all that commotion last season about Mike Piazza, and that press conference he held about not being gay? What did you think of all that?”

Of course he remembers - how could he forget? All the hype surrounding it only convinced him even more that coming out would be a horrible idea. “I don’t care,” he says. “It’s nobody’s business if he’s gay or not. God knows he didn’t need to give a press conference about it, though. What makes you bring that up?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” says Eames, and Arthur thinks he might hear a bit of relief in Eames’ voice; then again, he might just be projecting. “Heard someone talking about it the other day, I think. Show me that thing again, will you, the trick with your swing?”

There has to be more going on than that, Arthur thinks, but he doesn’t know what. Better not to think about it.

\--

Later that night, they’ve drunk most of a bottle of bourbon between them, which Arthur probably thought was a good idea at some point, but right now he’s concentrating on walking a straight line into the kitchen to get a glass of water. It doesn’t work; he stumbles over the edge of the rug and grabs onto the wall for balance. “I swear I can usually hold my liquor better than this,” he says, grinning, which may or may not actually be true. The next thing he knows, Eames is out of his chair, pressing Arthur up against the wall, and—

 _Oh._ Eames is _kissing_ him. Eames is kissing _him_?

Arthur makes a noise that’s less “stop” than it is “what the hell is going on,” but Eames pulls abruptly away, a look of horror on his face. “Fuck,” Eames says. “Fuck, I am so sorry, Arthur, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean - _fuck_.” 

Arthur stares at him, trying to form a coherent sentence, which is proving difficult, seeing as right now he can barely form a coherent _thought_. “I’m sorry,” Eames says again, and runs out of the room.

He debates following him, but he doesn’t know what he would say. Drunken confessions of love are never a good idea. Instead, he proceeds on his original plan: Get a glass of water. Drink the glass of water. Drink another one. Eat something. Drink more water. Call Ariadne.

Okay, that last one is a new addition to the plan, but he doesn’t know what else to do. “Arthur?” Ariadne asks sleepily, which is when he remembers that she’s three hours ahead of him. Shit. “What’s going on?”

“I, uh,” Arthur stammers. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“S’fine,” she yawns. “What’s wrong?”

“We were drinking,” he hears himself say. “Eames kissed me.”

“Oh, shit,” Ariadne says, suddenly sounding completely awake. “Hang on a minute, I’m making coffee.”

He gathers his thoughts while she makes coffee, and when she gets back on the phone he can picture her sitting at her kitchen table in her bathrobe, mug in hand. “So, you were drinking, and Eames kissed you. This should technically be a good thing, right?”

“People do stupid things when they’re drunk,” he says miserably. “He didn’t mean it. You should’ve heard him apologizing, after. You’d think that he _hurt_ me or something, the way he was talking.”

“Do you think you’re going to talk to him about it, in the morning? Or, well, whenever you wake up. The afternoon.”

“I don’t even know if he’ll _remember_ in the morning. That’s the problem.”

“And if he does?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

There’s a beep on the other end of the line, and she says, “Huh. I think Eames is drunk-dialing me.”

“Don’t—”

“I wouldn’t hang up on you, come on, don’t be silly. I’ll call him back later. What should I say if—”

“Pretend you didn’t talk to me,” Arthur says instantly. “Please.”

Ariadne sighs. “Okay,” she says. “I can do that.”

\--

Arthur drinks another two glasses of water before he goes to bed. It is indeed afternoon by the time he wakes up, and also, he thinks his bladder might explode. He can smell food cooking, so Eames must be awake. It’s almost enough to make him want to hide in bed, but he suspects that would be a very bad idea. When he finally forces himself to go downstairs, he acts more hungover than he actually is. “I feel like shit,” he says, plopping down at the kitchen table. “How much did we drink last night?”

“Too much,” Eames replies. “Listen, Arthur, I—”

“Is that sausage? Did you save me any?”

“There’s more in the refrigerator, I can make some if you want, but—”

“What the hell were we thinking, drinking that much?” Arthur groans. “Shit, my head. Never let me do that again. We didn’t do anything stupid, did we?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, because now that he’s started talking, he can’t make himself stop, and can’t keep himself from lying. It’ll be easier this way, if he pretends it never happened. “Because I don’t remember anything after the, uh,” he waves a hand vaguely. “The thing? Was there a bird? Eames, why was there a bird?”

“I don’t remember a bird,” Eames says faintly, which only makes sense, seeing as there wasn’t one. “You - you didn’t do anything stupid, no.”

“That’s a relief.” Arthur buries his face in his arms, hating himself just a little. “Jesus, just kill me now and get it over with. Or make me greasy breakfast foods, which is almost as bad. You better have saved me some Eggos.”

He never mentions that night again, not even to Ariadne. He thinks she’s about to bring it up, once, but she doesn’t, and for that he’s glad. He does his best to forget about it. He does his best to forget about _Eames_ with a string of forgettable hookups, but it never works. He feels sick, as though he’s cheating on Eames, even though they’re not (and never will be) together. He knows he needs to get over him - but he’s tried, and he’s tried, and eventually he resigns himself to loving forever, from a distance.

\--

This year, he gets selected for the All-Star Game as a reserve; it’s his first All-Star Game appearance, and he’s excited, of course he is - but he’s more excited for Eames, who’s actually going to be the starting pitcher. He’s proud of him.

He’s also proud of Eric Gagne, the Dodgers’ brilliant closer. In fairness, Gagne would probably have had a helluva season anyway, but Arthur likes to think that he had something to do with it. Gagne wins the Cy Young that year - Eames finishes second - and, yeah, Arthur’s proud. 

(Even though he ought to have team loyalty, and even though Gagne had a season most pitchers can only dream about, he secretly wishes that Eames had won.)

\--

The next season, during spring training, Arthur’s scheduled to attend a Make-a-Wish fundraiser, and he’s not especially looking forward to it. The charity had been his agent’s suggestion - since Arthur figured that fundraisers and donations to GLAAD or PFLAG wouldn’t go over too well, it seemed as good an option as any. Sick kids, you know? There are a lot worse causes to support, and he honestly enjoys the occasions when he actually gets to spend time with the kids.

He’s not a fan of the fundraisers, though. Rich people pay $250 a head to schmooze with him and some other players (but mostly with other rich people), enjoy the open bar, and feel good about themselves. Arthur knows how to get along, how to smile for the camera and make nice, but he’s not actually a people-person.

The other players in attendance aren’t guys he really knows - a couple of football players and one of Eames’ teammates: Dom Cobb, the Giants’ second baseman and team captain. They’ve met at a couple of other events, but Cobb always had his girlfriend with him. (He’s never spoken with her, but he admires her work; the photo shoot she just did for _Vogue Italia_ is stunning.)

Tonight, though, Cobb’s flying solo. “You know, I always feel about average sized when I’m with other baseball players,” Cobb says to him. “But then they make us pose for pictures with a linebacker and it makes me want to stand on a box.”

Arthur laughs. “Yeah, I know how you feel. I’m not even sure I could describe myself as ‘average sized,’ I think I’ve been the shortest one on almost every team I’ve played for.”

“You used to play shortstop, though, right?” Cobb asks. “You can’t be tall and do that.”

Arthur shrugs. “I guess. Like you said, I never really notice it.” He glances around. “I haven’t seen your girlfriend - Mallorie? Is she around?”

“She’s in Paris,” Cobb says wistfully, then lowers his voice. “We actually got engaged over Valentine’s Day. We’re trying to keep it out of the press for a little while.”

“Congrats,” says Arthur, a little surprised. “I’d buy you a drink if this place weren’t open bar.”

“Maybe some other time,” Cobb says with a laugh. “Hey, Eames told me to ask you - some story about him swallowing a frog?”

Arthur grins. He will never, ever get tired of telling that story.

\--

Arthur gets along with Cobb (“Dom,” Cobb insists) a lot better than he thought he would. Dom is often in the media spotlight, being a high-caliber player with a supermodel girlfriend. In photographs, he comes across as smug or aloof; in interviews, he plays the press so that every exchange goes his way. In person, though, to someone he doesn’t have to impress, Dom is pretty easy-going. Arthur’s a little surprised at how nice he is: He’s fundraising for Make-a-Wish because he genuinely wants to make some kid’s dream come true.

He figures out fairly quickly that Dom and Eames are friends, or at the very least friend _ly_. It only makes sense, then, to invite Dom to come along the next time he and Eames go out for drinks. It keeps the flow of conversation going; it means that Arthur can relax, a little bit, and also that he can pay more attention to Eames without being noticed. 

So it’s a little self-serving, yeah. But he does genuinely like Dom Cobb, and is glad to have him along.

Arthur invites Dom the next time, too, but Eames opts out at the very last minute. Consequently, Arthur spends most of the night worrying that something’s wrong. (Not that he calls to ask, of course. If Eames wanted to tell him, he would’ve.)

He does ask the next day, passing by Eames on the field before the game. “Missed you last night,” he says, deliberately casual. “Feeling okay?”

Eames looks surprised. “Yeah, I’m feeling fine.” He smiles. “Thanks.”

It starts out like any other game, but after Eames gets Arthur to strike out swinging, he really starts paying attention to what Eames is doing. And Eames is, thus far, throwing a no-hitter. 

The catcher keeps calling for Eames’ curveball, Arthur notes, and it’s a good pitch, but Eames is getting lazy with it. His fastball would be better - but the catcher probably wants to keep him from throwing right down the middle. What doesn’t make sense is that the catcher _hasn’t noticed_ that Eames’ curveball is being telegraphed.

There’s nothing Arthur can do about it until his next at-bat in the seventh inning. The first batter walks; the second hits a sacrifice fly to get the runner to second base. Then it’s Arthur’s turn at the plate, and he’s seething, can’t believe that the catcher’s still calling for the curve, can’t believe that his teammates are trying to break up a no-hitter, which is stupid, he should _want_ to win, should be trying to get a hit himself. Instead, Arthur looks Eames in the eye, makes a jerky sort of motion with his right elbow, taps two fingers down on his bat, and hopes like hell that Eames knows what he’s trying to say.

Eames looks briefly confused, and then he frowns and nods his head. Arthur squares up in the batter’s box, and Eames throws the pitch, and Arthur hits it, running towards first base and thinking _Shit, that was an awful pitch, why did I swing at that?_ It’s a double play, and he’s out by a mile.

Eames hangs on to the no-hitter, wins the game, and after the final out he’s mobbed by teammates and reporters both. No one’s watching the losing team, and so no one sees the smile on Arthur’s face.

He gets a call from Eames later that night, and he hadn’t expected it, but part of him had been hoping. “Hey,” he says. “Congrats!”

“I owe it to you,” Eames tells him. “You didn’t have to tell me about my curve. I wouldn’t have known. You could’ve not told me, got a hit, won the game.”

Arthur is silent, debating how to respond. Eventually, he opts for honesty. “I wanted you to win,” he admits quietly. “I wasn’t even sure you’d understand what I was trying to say, but I knew you could get the no-hitter, and you did. You deserved it.”

“Arthur—”

Shit, Arthur thinks. Why did he ever think honesty was a good idea? “I have to go,” he says shortly. “Early flight tomorrow. Congrats again.”

“Thanks,” says Eames. “Travel safe.”

\--

A couple nights later, he gets an email from Eames. _bought dinner 4 the team in no-hit celebration. but u contributed to the win 2, so no fair leaving u off. dinner nxt time ur in sf? my treat._

Arthur spends all night debating how to respond. _You don’t have to do that,_ he writes back, aiming for friendly but distant. _Also, you should learn to use capital letters._

He has to admit that he utterly deserves it when Eames sends him back an all-caps reply. _IS THIS BETTER? ANYWAY LET ME BUY U DINNER. NEW PLACE I WANT 2 TRY, THINK YOU’D LIKE IT. OR U CAN COME 2 THE HOUSE & I WILL COOK IF U WANNA AVOID THE PAPARAZZI._

Living and playing in Los Angeles, Arthur has had quite his fill of the paparazzi. _Fine,_ he writes, hitting the keys extra hard, as if that will somehow convey Arthur’s frustration. _You make steak, I’ll bring whiskey._

\--

They decide to postpone the dinner until after the season is over, scheduling it for a few free days before Thanksgiving. A wedding invitation arrives in the mail in mid-November, and before he opens it Arthur is honestly baffled as to who it could be from. It’s from Dom, of course, although the invitation itself - engraved black and gold on cream cotton paper - speaks more to Mallorie’s tastes. It’s going to be a ludicrously fancy wedding, and Arthur’s already writing the date on his calendar and making an appointment to buy a new suit. The idea of who he’s going with - who will be his wedding date - doesn’t even occur to him until a week later, when the subject comes up at Eames’.

“Got a wedding invitation from Cobb last week,” Eames says. “It’s going to be on some private island off the coast of France. Very posh.”

“Yeah, I got one too,” he responds, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Think you’ll go?” 

“Bad form not to, isn’t it? Thought I might ask Ariadne to come with me, if you don’t get to her first.”

Shit, Arthur thinks, taking his seat in an armchair. Right. People take dates to weddings. But why would Eames ask _Ariadne?_ “I thought she wasn’t your type.”

“Oh, not at all,” says Eames, “but I enjoy her company. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not that strange; we’ve kept in touch, she and I.” And yes, Arthur knew that, but— “If you’re worried about me leading her on,” Eames adds, “she knows I’m not interested. But if you’re interested in her - just say the word. I’ll happily let you ask her along.”

They’d tried dating for a little while, back in their freshman year of high school before Arthur had come out. It had been a spectacular failure of a relationship, but it had left them fast friends. He has to make a concerted effort not to laugh at the idea of being _interested_ in her. “I’m not interested in Ariadne,” he says. “I’m - I’m just surprised, I thought you might go with one of Mal’s supermodel friends.” He’d meant it as a lie, but once he’s said it, he realizes that, no, that’s exactly what he thought Eames would do. 

“Let me tell you a secret, Arthur,” Eames says with a world-weary sigh. “Supermodels, for all of their charms, are often truly boring conversationalists.”

“And conversation is important to you.” He’s seen some of the girls Eames has dated; none of them are exactly what he’d call intellectuals. Arthur knows he should let this go, but he wants more than anything to be able to ask Eames to go as his date, and the knowledge that he can’t fills him with an aching anger.

“Yes, actually,” says Eames, plainly irritated. “More important than anything else. I couldn’t be with someone I can’t talk to, not for very long.”

“But Ariadne—”

Eames glares at him. “Ariadne is a wonderful woman and a wonderful friend, and we have no romantic chemistry whatsoever. Arthur, really, what’s this about?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, forcing himself to take a deep breath. “You should see if she wants to go to the wedding. It’d be good to see her again.”

\--

They end up watching a _Godfather_ marathon for the rest of the night, and Arthur moves to the couch with Eames to get a better angle on the TV. About halfway through the second movie - so, four or five hours after they started watching - he looks over and notices that Eames has fallen asleep. Arthur’s tired himself, and he should probably go back to his room. But the couch is big and comfortable, and he’s feeling lazy and just a little bit daring. 

He stretches out on the couch, hesitating for a moment before he lays his head down. The top of his head is just brushing Eames’ thigh, and he holds his breath in anticipation of the inevitable reaction.

Eames doesn’t stir, and so Arthur lets himself settle down into the cushions. His back probably won’t thank him in the morning, but right now there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is that Eames’ hand is resting on his shoulder. He wants to lie there for hours, reveling in the contact, but the second thing he notices is that it’s nearing noon and he’s got a flight leaving at two o’clock. _Shit,_ Arthur thinks, and manages to extricate himself from the couch, dress, call a cab, brush his teeth, and get all his things thrown into his suitcase all without waking Eames. He leans over him, resisting the impulse to kiss him, and shakes his shoulder gently. “Eames. Hey, Eames, wake up.” Eames grunts and opens his eyes blearily. Arthur suppresses the urge to laugh. “I’ve gotta go, Eames, my cab’s out front. Sorry I didn’t wake you up earlier, I overslept.” He grins. “Comfortable couch you’ve got there.”

“Yeah,” Eames says sleepily, pushing himself to a standing position. “Sorry, mate. Thought I’d at least drive you to the airport.”

“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for letting me stay - it’s been a good time. Guess I’ll see you at Cobb’s wedding?”

Eames nods, giving Arthur one of those stupid macho pats on the back. “Have a safe flight. Hope you’re far away from any crying babies.”

Even sleep-rumpled and half-awake, Eames is one of the most beautiful men Arthur has ever seen, and Arthur’s probably about to do something foolish when the cab honks its horn. He takes the opportunity to grab his bag and run, calling “Thanks again!” as he heads out the door.

\--

He’d turned off his phone in the cab, so he doesn’t see the text from Eames until after his plane’s landed at LAX. _let me know when u get back 2 la ok? wouldnt want 2 worry haha._

 _Back in LA safe and sound,_ he sends, and he can’t stop smiling. _No crying babies to speak of. Thanks for worrying about me._

\--

The suit Arthur decides on (for the wedding, at least; he buys a couple of others just to have) is charcoal windowpane, three pieces, which he pairs with a crisp white shirt and a purple diamond-patterned tie. He agonizes about the purple, a little, wondering if he shouldn’t wear silver or green or Dodger blue. But that tie is a favorite, and it looks best, besides. 

Still, he calls Ariadne in a moment of weakness. “I’m thinking of wearing a purple tie to the wedding,” he says without preamble. “You don’t think it’ll be—”

“Too gay?” she guesses. “No, you’ll be fine. Oh!” She sounds distraught. “I was going to wear purple, is that okay? I don’t want us to match, it’s not _prom_ —”

He snorts, remembering her bright red prom dress and the vermillion bowtie he’d worn to match. “I don’t think it’ll be anything like prom, Ariadne. Wear the dress you were going to wear; I doubt we’ll be the only two in purple. It’s the new black.”

“...are you making that up? I legitimately can’t tell if you’re making that up or not.”

“I’m making that up,” he admits. “Purple’s not the new black. Blue is.”

Ariadne laughs. “If you say so. Are you - are you bringing anyone with you? To the wedding?”

He closes his eyes. “No. I... I thought about it, but. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right.”

“I should’ve known that,” she sighs. “I’m sorry. I’d trade places with you if I could.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insists. “I’m glad that you’re going with him. I don’t think I could handle seeing him with some Victoria’s Secret model all night. But I don’t have to be jealous of you.” He pauses, cringing. “Fuck. That came out wrong. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” she says with a laugh. “And you know you don’t have to be jealous of me - trust me, you really, really don’t. I wish you’d think about coming out to him.”

Arthur sighs. He’s asked her to drop the issue a hundred times, but each time she refuses. “I’ll see you at the wedding,” he says. “Take care of yourself.”

\--

The wedding is nothing less than an extravaganza, but for all its glitz and glamour it manages to be sophisticated, not tacky. At the reception, he amuses himself recognizing famous people - there’s Kate Moss, there’s David Beckham, there’s Robert Fischer, and there’s—

There’s Eames. He’s never seen Eames in a suit before, as Eames prefers more casual styles when he expresses a preference at all, but there he is, looking sleek and beautiful in a slate gray suit that brings out the blue in his eyes, and it’s almost enough to make Arthur ignore his bright orange tie.

Almost.

“Eames, Ariadne,” he greets them, deliberately casual. “You’re looking lovely.”

“Me or him?” Ariadne jokes.

Arthur smiles. The purple was a good choice for her, darker than the amethyst of his own tie; she looks radiant. “Both of you, of course. Although Eames, your tie is hideous.”

“Oi!” says Eames indignantly, because Arthur just has to sabotage himself romantically, even when there’s nothing to sabotage. “That’s team colors! You can’t insult Cobb’s team on his wedding day, that’s just bad form!”

“There’s nothing wrong with the San Francisco Giants’ colors,” he replies. “There is everything wrong with your tie.”

Ariadne starts giggling uncontrollably then, and they both turn to look at her with confusion. The exchange hadn’t been _that_ funny. “You two,” she says. “ _Oh my god,_ the two of you, seriously.” She dissolves into another fit of laughter. Arthur sighs inwardly - she always was a lightweight - and gently takes the glass of wine out of her hand

“Maybe you should drink some water,” he suggests, and when he turns to motion for a waiter, she pokes him in the side. Arthur regrets ever telling her that he was ticklish.

“Give that back, I’m not drunk,” she insists. “Anyway, that tie could be a lot worse! It could be one with baseball caps on it!”

Arthur shudders in mock-horror. Some of Eames’ teammates are nearby and overhear, instantly leaping to the defense of the age-old Father’s Day gift of a Baseball Tie. Arthur had given his own father at least one such tie, but he lets himself get drawn into the argument, such as it is, letting himself be distracted by the debate so that he’ll forget (at least for a little while) that he’s at a wedding with the man he loves and he will never, ever be able to tell him. 

Dom and Mallorie stroll up around that time, and Mal laughs at all of them for debating about such a silly subject. She deliberately compliments Eames’ tie, greets Ariadne like an old friend, and allows Arthur to waltz her around on the dance floor. “You are a good dancer,” she says. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“My mom had me take lessons when I was a kid,” he tells her, and god, he hasn’t thought about those lessons in ages. “She thought I’d stop running into things and knocking things over if I was more aware of my body.”

Mal arches an eyebrow. “And did it work?”

“No,” he says, “but then my dad - my Little League coach - had me start playing at shortstop, and that did.”

“Your father must be very proud of you, to see you playing in the major leagues.”

“He died when I was in high school,” Arthur says, marvelling that he can say it so casually. “But I’d like to think he would be.”

\--

It’s late in the evening - so late that it’s probably morning, but Arthur deliberately didn’t wear a watch - and the reception’s wearing down, though the waiters are still circulating tirelessly with their trays of champagne. He snags a couple of flutes and hands one to Eames, who’s lurking near a window. “Been abandoned?” he asks, nodding towards Ariadne, chatting across the room with - is that Robert Fischer? Good for her.

“She’s welcome to wander,” Eames says dryly, sipping the champagne. “It’s a party, she should enjoy herself. I’d hate for her to be tied to my arm all evening.”

“Why? I think you’re good company.”

Eames grins. “Ah, but she’s beautiful and single, and there are so many rich bachelors in this room. No reason why she shouldn’t try to snare one.”

“What about me?” Arthur asks before he can stop himself, because isn’t he also beautiful (well, handsome) and single?

“Well, darling, I didn’t think rich bachelors were your type,” Eames drawls, and Arthur is close, _so close_ to telling the truth when Eames cuts him off. “Only joking. I’m sure there’s got to be at least one supermodel who’s caught your eye?”

“I think all the supermodels have dates,” Arthur says neutrally, although his eye is immediately drawn back to Robert Fischer, prompting him to add, “Well, not that one, but I think Ariadne’s about to change that.” He nods across the room. “Pretty sure that’s Robert Fischer - he just did that ad campaign for Burberry?” He gives Eames a questioning look, but Eames just looks confused. “Doesn’t matter. He and Mal are good friends.” That last bit may not be entirely accurate, but Robert’s at the wedding, so he assumes they must be close.

“Uh,” says Eames. “Well. Good for Ariadne.”

Arthur resists the urge to sigh, and blames champagne and exhaustion for making him ask, “What about you? Have your eye on anyone tonight?”

“Nah,” Eames says with a shrug. “I’m quite happy in my bachelorhood. Bachelordom? Bachelorness?”

“Bachelorhood,” Arthur laughs, but it turns into a yawn at the end. “Guess it’s about time to get some sleep - I don’t want to know what the actual time is, please don’t tell me.”

“Think it’s safe to leave Ariadne on her own?”

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur says confidently. “She’ll be fine, she does Tae Bo.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Eames staggers, clutching his chest and buckling down on his knees, and all Arthur can see is his father, falling on the ground behind home plate on that sweltering spring afternoon. He crouches, panicking, one hand on Eames’ shoulder. “Eames, are you—” But Eames has started laughing, isn’t this a funny trick to play, and Arthur, furiously, punches him in the left shoulder. “You _asshole!_ ”

“It was a joke!” he protests. “Ow!”

“It wasn’t funny,” Arthur says, furious and terrified. “Don’t do that to me, Eames. Don’t do that.”

“Darling, I didn’t know you cared,” says Eames flippantly, and where the hell does he get off calling him “darling” after a prank like that? It should make Arthur’s heart thrill at the word, but instead it just makes him angrier.

“Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” he bites out, noticing the look of hurt on Eames’ face and utterly not caring. “God knows you don’t deserve it.” He stands, not even bothering to look at Eames before he walks away. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

\--

He doesn’t bother trying to sleep; he knows he won’t be able to. Besides, he’s got a twelve-hour flight from Paris to LA the next morning, and he plans to sleep through most of that. 

He knows he shouldn’t be angry with Eames - he _knows_ that, but he’s choosing not to be rational right now. Eames couldn’t have known about his dad: Arthur never told him. He knows Ariadne would never say anything; she only knows because she helped keep him sane during those dark months after his dad died, when baseball was the only thing keeping him going, and sometimes even _that_ hurt too much.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if Eames actually did have a heart attack. 

It scares him too much to think about.

\--

The text messages are waiting for him when he arrives home, all of them from Eames, each one spaced two or three hours apart.

_sry about last nite. shouldnt have said that. i know u care. sry i am such a berk._

_i hope u know i didnt mean it that way. supposed 2 b a joke. i shld prbly stop joking. im sry._

_i know ur angry at me but at least lets fight it out. didn’t think u were much for the silent treatment._

_look ur not wrong 2 be angry. i deserve it. want u 2 know ur my best friend. definitely dont deserve u._

There’s a voicemail, too, a couple of hours after the last text message. _“Arthur, hi.”_ There’s a throat-clearing noise. _“This is Eames. I just. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that last night. You’ve been a better friend than I could ever ask for. I— I hope you can forgive me eventually. I can’t guarantee that I won’t ever act like a prat again, but I’m going to try. And, since I’m on the phone, I think you were trying to tell me something last night, but I don’t know what it was. I think you were trying to be subtle, but I’m not very good at interpreting subtlety sometimes. You’ve probably noticed that. Anyway, um. I’m sorry. Goodnight.”_

Oh, Eames, Arthur thinks. Then he turns his phone off and goes to bed.

\--

He re-reads the text messages and listens to the voicemail once more in the morning . He’s calmed down significantly since the night of the wedding - it’s even possible he’d overreacted a little, not that he’d ever admit to it. Armed with a mugful of coffee, he sits down at his computer to write an email to Eames. It isn’t easy. He decides, eventually, to just be blunt.

 _You’re an asshole._

Well, it’s not the politest of beginnings, but it’s honest enough, anyway. _I can’t believe you sent me that many texts,_ he types. _Also, I can’t believe you took your phone to France. That’s why I wasn’t responding, by the way, because I left my phone in California like every other sane person who doesn’t have an international SIM card._

_I won’t lie, I was pretty mad. We’ve been friends this long and you pull that ‘didn’t know you cared’ bullshit? There’s no point in me staying mad at you, since you’ve already apologized six times and are obviously aware of what an asshole you were. I’m almost surprised you didn’t send me flowers._

_Look. You’re my best friend too. Let’s try and keep it that way.  
\- Arthur_

_P.S. You’re buying drinks the first half of the season, asshole. This is your penance._

It’s almost everything he wants to write, but as much as he tries, there doesn’t seem to be a casual way to say, _I was angry with you because I was scared you were actually dying, because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, even though you aren’t even mine to lose, and one day you’re going to fall in love with someone else and it’s going to break my heart, and there won’t be anything I can do about it._ So he doesn’t say it, and just sends the email as-is.

\--

Arthur never talks about the wedding, not with Ariadne and not with Eames; when Eames tries to apologize, Arthur cuts him off halfway through. He’s happy to pretend that nothing happened at the wedding other than the uniting of a man and a woman in holy matrimony. It was glamorous, it was expensive, Arthur made a generous donation in their name to the Make-a-Wish Foundation because millionaires don’t need wedding registries. (“What do I need with a china pattern?” Mal had scoffed. “Please. Should we ever entertain more than a casual gathering, I am sure we will have it catered.”)

Spring training goes as usual and the regular season begins without fanfare. There are other benefits to not playing in Baltimore anymore (a winning record, for one thing), but it’s hard to beat Los Angeles weather in April, warm and sunny when most of the other teams are still wearing long sleeves and fleece. He doesn’t hear much from Eames, which isn’t unexpected; what is unexpected is Eames’ mid-May trip to the disabled list, which he only hears about from watching ESPN.

“What the hell, are you okay?” he asks the minute Eames picks up the phone.

Eames stifles a laugh. “Just some persistent elbow soreness, nothing to be worried about. Rest my arm for a couple of weeks and I’ll be right as rain.”

Except then, two weeks later, Eames tears a ligament in his arm and has to undergo Tommy John surgery. And even though he knows that worse pitchers than Eames have come back from surgery just fine, Arthur’s heart drops to the bottom of his stomach, because better pitchers have been ruined by it. He can’t let it distract him, though; Tommy John surgery is routine, practically a rite of passage, if one preferably avoided. Eames will be fine.

He still calls him, though, the night before Eames’ surgery. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he says. “You know I’d be happy to help you rehab in the off-season.”

“The off-season’s likely to be the next time I’m able to throw,” Eames replies easily, and Arthur can practically see him lying lazily in bed, propped up on pillows. He doesn’t know why that image pops into his head, but Eames sounds like he might be in bed, relaxed and drowsy. It’s probably painkillers. “Ta. I’ll let you know. I’ll have to talk with Yusuf and all, but I think we can work something out.”

\--

The Dodgers don’t have a stellar year - it’s pretty abysmal, honestly, though after playing in Baltimore, Arthur’s used to it. There’s always next year.

Even for Eames, there’s next year, and in their conversations (every couple of weeks or so, not with any special regularity) he tries to keep Eames focused on the healing and recovery process. But he knows Eames, and Eames has little patience for idleness, growing anxious when he’s forced into stillness. 

It must be torture, Arthur thinks, for Eames to watch his old teammates on the White Sox compete in the playoffs, and even more so to see them win the World Series. But:

“I couldn’t watch,” Eames says. “I wanted to, but I - I just couldn’t. I can’t even make myself send an email to say congratulations. Of course I _want_ to be happy for them, it must be a dream come true. But if it weren’t bad enough that I’m not on the team, right now I can’t even _play catch_.”

“Only a few more weeks,” Arthur reminds him. “You have to give your arm enough time to heal.”

Eames makes a disgruntled noise. “It can bloody well hurry up about it!”

There’s no reasoning with Eames when he’s like this; the only way to cheer him up is to distract him. “You’re just bored and antsy, aren’t you? You should get a dog to keep you company.”

“I should - get a _dog_? Arthur, that is a terrible idea. A dog is no kind of pet for a single man who travels eight months out of the year. A pet _rock_ , maybe. I think I could take care of a pet rock without killing it.”

He has to work hard to restrain his laughter. “You don’t sound too certain.”

“Well, rocks are highly temperamental creatures, aren’t they? Can’t just lock ‘em in the closet all day; they need light, and air! I don’t know, it might be a bit too much work for me.”

Arthur can’t hold back his laughter anymore, at that, and after a brief moment of silence on the other end of the line, Eames starts laughing too. When they regain their breath, though god knows it takes some time, they make plans for Arthur’s visit. He meant what he said: He’s looking forward to visiting with Eames, even though he doubts he’ll be much help in the rehab process. Still. It’ll be good for Eames to have company; he isolates himself too much.

When he arrives in San Francisco, most of what Arthur does is drive Eames back and forth from rehab appointments, although they do play more games of catch than either of them has played since childhood. Eames wants to go right back to throwing 95 miles per hour; it’s Arthur’s job to keep him from pushing too hard (and, sometimes, to keep him focused when he gets bored). 

“Not that I’m not grateful,” Eames says one afternoon, “because I really truly am, but isn’t this going a bit above and beyond the call of duty?”

Arthur knew that this was going to come up eventually, and he has a defense specifically prepared. “I'm pretty much guaranteed a knee or hip surgery at some point in my future,” he says. “You can make it up to me then.”

He can tell that Eames doesn’t really buy it. “So it’s a ‘pay it forward’ kind of deal?” 

“If you like,” Arthur agrees. “Also,” and he grins, “there’s no one else who will tolerate you for extended periods of time.”

Eames swings at him with his left arm. Arthur doesn’t dodge the punch, but only because he knows Eames isn’t really trying to hurt, and also (maybe) because he wants to give Eames as many small victories as he can.

It’s difficult, helping Eames with his rehab; he’d meant to only come for a week and ends up staying for two. He treasures each moment, whether it’s Eames’ morning cantankerousness or the way he gets sleepy in the evenings. _This is what it could be like,_ he allows himself to think, just once, and then immediately shuts down any further thoughts along those lines. They’re just friends. That’s all they can ever be.

\--

Arthur will never cease loving Opening Day. Even if the rest of the season is horrible, Opening Day is perfect, brimfull of promise and possibilities. Some players get distracted by the crowd, but for Arthur, everything’s absolutely quiet when he’s in the moment; nothing breaks through his focus.

But Eames doesn’t get Opening Day this year. Well - he does, but not for the Giants. He’s still rehabbing, starting the season with one of the Giants’ minor league affiliates in Connecticut. “He looks good,” Ariadne offers; she’d gone up from New York to catch the game. “I mean, not like I can tell the difference. He’s still better than everyone else on the team. But he doesn’t look comfortable the way he used to.”

And while no one would ever hire Ariadne to produce a full-scale scouting report, she’s still a better judge of people than just about anyone he’s ever met. Arthur knows exactly what she means.

It’s a good season for Arthur, or it seems like it will be one; people laugh at Yogi Berra, but it really _isn’t_ over till it’s over. Last season, Eames barely got a month in before he was injured; who knows what the next few weeks and months will hold. 

Arthur puts together a solid hitting streak that begins a few games into the season that ends the same day as Eames makes his return to the Majors, a week or so before Memorial Day. The Giants win, but it’s not spectacular. He knows Eames could’ve done better, suspects Eames knows it too, and calls him to say so. Eames doesn’t pick up - he’s probably talking to the press - so Arthur leaves a voicemail. “Hey,” he says, “it’s Arthur. Good game tonight. I know, I know - you’ll do better next time. You got too used to minor league hitting, I think it made you complacent.” He glances at the clock, makes a face. “Uh, I’m on the East Coast, so don’t call me back, I’ll be sleeping.” Not that he wouldn’t gladly wake up to hear Eames’ voice, but— “Talk to you another time.”

There’s a message from Eames waiting for him when he checks his email the next morning. _Got ur vm. Im not complacent, im rusty. Get ur facts straight ha ha._

He knows Eames sent it with a grin on his face, knows that it means thank you. It’s not a phone call, but it’s as good as he can get for now.

\--

One of their relief pitchers, Tadashi, cajoles Arthur into going on a date with his girlfriend’s sister. Christina is an objectively lovely woman, which means claiming that he’s not attracted to her would raise more questions than it’s worth, so they have their first date just after mid-season. She’s at UCLA working on a postdoc in neurobiology and doing some modeling on the side to help pay the bills - “That’s the job market these days,” she says wryly. Arthur doesn’t look forward to the inevitability of his post-retirement job search.

Even if Arthur has to feign attraction, he doesn’t have to feign interest; he doesn’t know a thing about neuroscience, but the way Christina talks about it makes it sound fascinating, or at least fascinating enough for another few dates, spread out over the course of several weeks. He’s pretty sure that 1) she knows he’s not interested and 2) she’s just in it for the dinners, at this point, and both of those are fine with him. They’re on one of these dinners in December; the season’s long over but he’s just won another Gold Glove award, and they’re out to celebrate (even though it’s not how he’d prefer to be celebrating at all), when his phone rings. “I’m sorry,” he says to Christina, when he sees that it’s Eames. “Do you mind if I—?”

She waves a hand. “Go ahead.”

“Eames, hi,” Arthur answers the phone, and hates himself for what he has to say next: “Can I call you back? I’m, uh, on a date.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “You didn’t have to answer,” Eames says.

“I know how you get when I don’t answer your calls,” he laughs, but what he really means is, _I wanted to hear your voice_. “Didn’t want you to go sending a search party.”

“No,” Eames replies. “Do enjoy yourself. I shan’t interrupt further.”

Eames hangs up, and Arthur stares at his phone for a moment before putting it away. “Sorry about that,” he tells Christina.

“It’s fine,” she says. “You really didn’t have to cut it short. I was going to break up with you anyway.”

“Uh,” Arthur says.

“It’s nothing personal,” Christina goes on. “But I have a girlfriend. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” Arthur says. “I don’t mind at all.”

\--

“So that girl I was kind of dating,” Arthur says to Ariadne on the phone.

“The girl you were fake-dating,” she corrects him. “The actress?”

“Model-slash-neurobiologist,” he corrects in turn. “She broke up with me. Evidently she’s gay.”

Ariadne makes a strangled noise that Arthur thinks (but isn’t sure) is a laugh. “Oh, that is just. That is just, wow. Priceless.”

“I’m glad you get such a kick out of it,” he says. “I wish she’d told me sooner.”

“Hypocrite.”

\--

The season comes and goes, and while the Dodgers and the San Diego Padres tie for the lead in their division, the Padres are awarded the division title and the Dodgers receive the wild card spot in the playoffs. Neither team makes it past the first round. When Arthur wins his second-straight Gold Glove award that winter, he takes great pride in it, but it’s of small consolation to both him and the Dodgers.

In January, he gets an email from Eames, with a picture of a small rock wearing what is either a dead animal or a wig. _Have decided to adopt a pet rock,_ the email reads. _Thinking of calling it Laertes. Whats ur opinion?_

 _I think you’re insane,_ Arthur writes back. _Also, I think Hamlet is a much more appropriate name for something that sits around and never does anything._

There are always high hopes in February, in March and April, but the next season is no good for the Dodgers either, and even worse for the Giants. The year after that, the Giants aren’t much better, but that doesn’t stop Eames from establishing himself as the dominant pitcher of the year. The Dodgers, on the other hand, they’re on track to win the division. Arthur's not having a bad year himself, and they both start the All-Star Game; Arthur loves playing on the same team as Eames, even if it’s only for a couple of innings. Most pitchers who make it to the major leagues are good, at least compared to the ones who don’t make it, but very few of those pitchers are _great_ , and Eames is one of them. Catching for Eames makes him hold himself to a higher standard. 

The Dodgers do win the division, sweep the Cubs to make it to the next round, and then lose to the Phillies in the NLCS. The Phillies go on to win the World Series, and, well - it’s a little bitter, to watch them, knowing how close he came to being in their place, to riding in the parade.

All rivalries aside, Arthur jumps up and punches the air when he hears that Eames has won that year’s Cy Young, then immediately grabs his phone to call him. “Congratulations!” he yells - he’s trying not to yell, but he really can’t help it. “I knew you could do it!”

“ _I_ didn’t,” Eames says, laughing. “Two years off an injury, I mean, it’s not unheard of, but—”

“—but _nothing_ ,” Arthur insists. “There wasn’t even a contest, okay? Look, I played against Santana, and I played against Webb, and neither of them even came close. You deserve it.”

“Thank you,” says Eames. “I only...” He pauses. Arthur wonders what he’s thinking. “I only wish I could’ve done more for the team, is all.”

“You did what you could,” Arthur says. “There’ll be next year.”

“Yes,” says Eames, amused. “There always is.”

\--

Next year rolls around. And if truth be told, Arthur has been frustrated with the Dodgers for at least two seasons, but he has another couple of years on his contract and doesn’t see that there’s much he can do about it. He’s managed to keep his complaints out of the press, but god knows he’s complained to his friends: the fans show up in the third inning, leave in the seventh, and can barely be bothered to cheer when someone hits a home run, let alone show any antipathy to the opposing team. For all Arthur grew up cheering for the Dodgers, he sure as hell hates playing in Los Angeles.

And then there’s fucking _Manny_. Manny, who’s loud and flashy and more about garnering fame and accolades than playing the goddamned game—

Yeah. Manny’s barely been on the team a year and on multiple occasions Arthur’s had to restrain himself (and once, had been physically restrained by his teammates) from punching him in the face. The rest of his teammates, though, he likes them. They’re good people, good players, especially Russell, who’ll be an All-Star catcher if he can ever get out of Arthur’s shadow.

So when his agent calls him early one May afternoon, he’s willing to listen. “I know you’ve got a no-trade clause,” his agent says. “But I’ve got an offer for you that you might want to hear.”

“Who’s the team?” Arthur asks, because Houston tried to make an offer last year, and no way in hell was that happening.

“It’s the Giants,” his agent says, and Arthur finds himself grinning.

“I’m listening.”

\--

“I heard the news,” Eames says. Word travels fast; Arthur’s only barely begun packing. “Do you need a place to stay?”

“They’re putting me up at a hotel until I can find somewhere,” Arthur replies, trying to keep his voice level. “I mean, unless you’re offering—?”

Eames laughs. “You’ve been to my house, it’s bloody big! There’s plenty of room for you to stay.”

“I’d hate to impose,” Arthur says, and then proceeds to ignore the voice in his head that says, _Don’t do it, this is a bad idea!_ “But that would be really great, I mean, at least for a little while.”

And that’s it, it’s a plan; Arthur calls his agent to cancel the hotel and arrives the next morning at Eames’ house, which is cleaner than he’s ever seen it before. Clearly Eames hired somebody to do it for him. “You really didn’t have to,” he says dryly.

“It’s the least I could do,” Eames shrugs. “Besides, the place was overdue for a spring cleaning.”

Arthur looks at him skeptically, because he remembers exactly how clean Eames wasn’t when they were roommates, and doubts that his habits have changed at all. But it’s impolite to be rude to one’s host. “I’m going to go nap for a few hours,” he says, carting his luggage towards the guest room. “Wake me in enough time to eat before we go to the stadium.”

The San Francisco fans greet him enthusiastically, but he doesn’t bother to unpack - or rather, he _re_ packs some of his things into a smaller suitcase to take on the week-long roadtrip the team embarks on the next morning. 

He hasn’t caught a regular season game for Eames in years, but it’s just like old times, the first game they play together. He knows the hitters’ weaknesses and Eames’ strengths, and putting them together is - well, it’s not child’s play, exactly, but it’s what he _does_ , it’s Arthur’s job and he’s damn good at it, and Eames is more responsive to his signals than most pitchers. Anyway, it leads to a solid win. 

The next day, he’s with Eames in Eames’ hotel room, watching some shitty action movie on TNT while they wait for the team bus to arrive to take them to the airport for the second half of the roadtrip. “You know,” Eames says during a commercial break, “if you want, you could just stay with me. In the house, I mean. There’s plenty of room. I mean, you’ll probably want your own place eventually, obviously, you’ve got a shitload of furniture, but - you don’t need to rush your housing search. If you don’t want to, I mean.”

Arthur hasn’t even given a second thought to his housing search since his plane left Los Angeles. He supposes his agent might be looking into it. “That would be great, actually,” he hears himself saying. “I’ve barely been in San Francisco, I wouldn’t know where to look. Thanks.”

On the bus to the airport, while Eames isn’t paying attention, Arthur texts Ariadne: _Just agreed to move in with Eames for the foreseeable future. On a purely platonic basis. Fuck._

 _No, platonic means there’s NO fucking,_ Ariadne texts back a minute later. _You should work on changing that._

Arthur turns off his phone.

\--

When they arrive back at Eames’ house three days later, preparing to launch themselves into another solid week of games before their next day off, Arthur really wants nothing more than to take a hot shower and then sleep for ten hours straight. But Eames suggests a drink to help them decompress, and Arthur - Arthur rarely turns down time he can spend with Eames, not even now that he’s seeing him on a daily basis. They sit in the living room and Arthur tries to keep himself awake while Eames lingers on the other side of the room. But then Eames starts to talk:

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says, and either he’s already finished his first drink or he never had one to begin with, because now he’s pouring himself another from out of the liquor cabinet. 

Arthur looks at him quizzically. “Okay?”

“And I know we already talked about you - living here, but this is probably something you should know before you make your final decision.”

Arthur is pretty sure he’d already made his final decision when he’d said _That would be great, thanks,_ but apparently Eames thinks otherwise. He looks at him blankly.

“I’m gay,” Eames says, and Arthur almost drops his glass. “And on a related note, I’m in love with you. And I have been for years. And if you’re not interested - which is fine, it’s not like I haven’t already been operating under that principle - but if you tell me you’re not interested, then that’s that, I’ll never mention it again. And if you’d rather not stay here - I understand perfectly. There’s not - there’s no reason this has to ruin our friendship. But if, if you’d rather not stay friends, then...I would also understand that. I would be hurt. But I can see why you might also be hurt by me not telling you that I’m gay even though we’ve been friends for fifteen years. I hope you can understand why I didn’t, because, _baseball_ , you know. And I don’t - I don’t want to lose my career over this,” he says quickly, and Arthur recognizes the fear in Eames’ eyes. “I don’t want to lose you - your friendship, either, but whatever happens between the two of us, don’t tell the team. Or the media. Or anybody, actually. I’m telling you because I trust you, but I’m not ready to be a public figure, I’m _not_ , and, um. Anyway. I thought you should know.”

Eames looks away and chugs his scotch, and Arthur’d chide him for that if he had any brain cells left to spare. “You’re gay,” he repeats, because he can’t believe it, he needs to hear it again. “And you’re in love with me?”

Eames looks away. “Yes?”

“I never thought,” he says, and that’s it, fuck rational thought, it’s just emotions spilling out of him now. “I always thought it was just - you being European, or something. Or it was just, you know. Baseball homoerotocism.” _I’m in love with you, and I have been for years._ “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d react,” Eames says nervously. “I didn’t want to ruin things.”

“You wouldn’t have ruined things,” Arthur tells him, putting down the glass that he is, somehow, still holding in his hand. He goes to join Eames by the liquor cabinet, and god knows that they’ve stood closer than this before, but he’s never felt tension like this between them until now. Eames looks terrified. “Eames,” he says gently. “Think about it. You really thought I was taking care of you after your surgery because I wanted you to pay me back some day?”

“I’ve always been a little confused by that, to be honest,” Eames admits, giving him a hesitant glance. “Was that...not the reason?”

The laugh bursts out of Arthur before he can restrain it. “You can be so dense sometimes,” he says fondly. “ _No_ , Eames. I did it because I love you too, asshole.” And he’d never have admitted that if you paid him, but now, now it doesn’t matter, because it’s not just him, it’s _them_ , and he’s not sure who started kissing whom, but they are, and he’s not complaining, he’s downright giddy, and then he gives himself permission to stop thinking, because honestly, there are more important things to focus on right now.

\--

"You should sleep, love,” Eames says muzzilly; they lie curled together, and his breath is warm against Arthur’s neck.

“Don’t want to,” Arthur murmurs. He’s half-afraid that if he falls asleep, he’ll wake up and find he dreamed it all.

“It will still be real in the morning,” Eames assures him. “I’ll still be here. You’ll still be here with me, unless you leave in the middle of the night, in which case I’ll be very unhappy.” 

“I won’t leave,” Arthur promises. 

“That’s good,” Eames says, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer. “Because I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to go to bed with you every night. And I’ve wanted for _so long_ —”

“Not just you,” says Arthur, rolling over to face him. “Jesus, Eames, I can’t tell you how many times I wished - how many times I told myself it would never happen. But now I have you,” he says wonderingly. 

Eames kisses him gently. “You’ll always have me.”

\--

They don’t have much of a discussion over whether or not to come out - neither of them is ready for that kind of publicity. For appearances’ sake, though, Arthur has to move out. The condo he moves into is nice enough, but each night he dreads going back there, knowing that Eames won’t be coming with him. They see each other off the field - of course they do - and everyone already knows they’re friends, so no one questions that. But they can’t be themselves except with the doors locked and the curtains shut to make sure nobody’s watching. Even then, they have to put a time limit on themselves, no more than a few hours, nothing that will arouse suspicion. They had those blissful first few days, before Arthur moved out, but now every moment together has to be stolen and secretive. There’s no falling asleep together, no waking up together. His life feels like even more of a lie than it had before.

Arthur hates it. “I wish,” he begins, lying in bed with Eames, but trails off. What _doesn’t_ he wish, when it comes to Eames?

“I know,” Eames says quietly, and kisses him. “Someday.”

\--

When Dom and Mal invite the two of them over for dinner, Arthur wants to tell him. “We’ve both been friends with him for years,” he says. “There should be _someone_ we don’t have to pretend in front of.”

“Where Cobb goes, so goes the team,” Eames says. “If he doesn’t react well—”

“Let me tell him,” Arthur tries to compromise. “Just me. You don’t have to be in the room. And if things go badly, we can leave.”

Eames hesitates, but nods. “Just be careful. Please.”

Arthur kisses him, half _thank you_ and half _I love you_ and entirely just because he can. “We’ve come this far apart,” he says. “We can go the rest together.”

The meal itself goes well - Arthur expected nothing less, as Mal and Dom are both more than capable hosts; they know how to make their guests feel at home and relaxed. After dinner is over, Eames volunteers to help Mal clean up in order to give Arthur a chance to speak with Dom alone. “Hey,” he says as they walk into the living room, and clears his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Dom sits down on the couch, gesturing Arthur to the loveseat opposite. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine - I mean, I think so. I hope it will be.”

Dom leans forward with a look of concern on his face. “Arthur, are you sick?”

“I’m not sick, Dom.”

“Because you can tell me if you are. Is it cancer?”

Arthur can’t help but laugh. “Jesus, no, Dom, I don’t have cancer.” He takes a deep breath. “The thing is - I’m gay.” He watches Dom’s reaction: there’s surprise, but no revulsion. He feels himself relax a little. “I never said anything before because - well, the team,” he says, and Dom nods in understanding. “And there was never any reason to before.”

“But now there is.” It’s not a question, but Dom’s very clearly expecting an answer.

“There is,” he agrees. “Because you should know that Eames is also gay. And we’re - we’re together.” Discounting when they called to tell Ariadne, it’s the first time he’s said it out loud. 

“Oh,” says Dom, and then: “ _Oh._ Well - congratulations. That’s great, Arthur.” Dom has a distant look in his eyes that Arthur suspects means that he’s mentally replaying every interaction between Arthur and Eames in search of clues. “I won’t deny that I have a lot of questions, mostly because it seems there are whole sections of your lives that I know nothing about. But I don’t blame you for keeping quiet.” He pauses. “Thank you for telling me. Your trust means a lot.” Dom glances up; Arthur follows his gaze to see Eames lingering in the doorway. “Hey, come on in.”

Eames seems to look at Arthur for a sign, and so Arthur smiles. _Everything’s all right,_ he hopes the smile says. _We’re safe._ “Arthur’s told you, then?” Eames asks casually, but as he sits down next to him, Arthur can feel how tense he is.

“It’ll take some getting used to,” Dom says honestly, “but that’s just me needing some time to wrap my head around it. But I gather it’s new for you, too - I mean, the relationship, not the being gay part - unless it is, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.” Dom’s handling things very well, all things considered, but he still looks like he’d rather be facing a firing squad than having this conversation.

“The being gay part is not new for either of us,” Arthur confirms, and when he looks at Eames he can’t keep himself from smiling. “But we’ve only been together for a few weeks. Even coming out to each other was a leap of faith, you know? Neither of us thought the other was gay.”

“Neither did I,” Dom says. “Neither does anyone on the team, as far as I know, which must make it easier on you - I mean—”

Eames cuts him off. “It does. We’re not planning on coming out to the team. It’s too much, too soon.”

Dom should never play poker, Arthur thinks. He probably couldn’t keep his emotions off his face if his life depended on it. “No, of course,” he says, sounding incredibly relieved. “And you have my word, my lips are sealed.” A look of horror crosses his face. “And I promise I will never try to set either of you up on dates with any women ever again.”

 _Oh,_ Arthur thinks, as Eames goes to get a drink. As long as this lasts - as long as _they_ last - he’s not going to have to watch in agony as Eames dates another string of actresses and models. He finds himself letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

He stays at Eames’ that night, unwilling to leave him and wanting to preserve the illusion of normalcy for at least a little longer. For at least one night, they don’t have to hide.

When they go to bed, Eames curls himself around Arthur; they so rarely are able to just _sleep_ together. When they do, Eames craves touch, and Arthur is more than happy to give it to him. “No more dating supermodels for you,” he murmurs against Eames’ shoulder, because although he doesn’t need the assurance, he finds he wants it nonetheless.

“No, darling,” Eames says with a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Only you. Only ever you.”


End file.
